Recovering the Trail
by Shyranae
Summary: What happened after the pool? Could Moriarty have survived the explosion, or is the developing trouble from a different source.
1. Chapter 1

_Howdy, I have jumped on the Sherlock bandwagon. I've just finished watching 'The Great Game' and boy am I excited. Admittedly I know what happens, or at least what should happen, I've read all the books, been reading them since I was little._

_Now I know lots of people have done Post –Great Game stories, but hey, we can always use a little more. There will be no Slash here, at all. Sherlock Holmes, has always been and will always be a living, breathing calculator, the only emotion he shows is to John and it has always been in a vague friendly way. I can't read Sherlock romances because he really shouldn't have them; it is going against everything in his character. I won't read them, so I won't write them._

_Anyway rant over, on with the story._

Chapter 1: Breathe

The slightest of nods; that was all the indication John gave him that what he was thinking was alright. How could John know what he was thinking, no one knew what he was thinking, their slow tiny minds incapable of following the blistering pathways which Sherlock's took.

But John had nodded, Sherlock turned and raised the gun to point at Moriarty's face. Moments later he shifted the aim of the gun to the bomb which lay, half wrapped in that heavy coat, sitting on the ground at Moriarty's feet. Moriarty was watching him, daring him. Sherlock met his eyes and pulled the trigger.

The bang of the bullet leaving the gun was lost in the roar of the bomb exploding. Something solid hit Sherlock in the side, slamming him into the icy water of the pool. Fire roared above their heads as John dragged both of them underwater.

They were in the middle of the pool, unfortunately the force that John had used to knock him over threw them deep enough into the water that Sherlock cracked his head on the tiled bottom. He had been holding his breath, breathing was boring anyway. The burst of stars which resulted from the sharp contact his head made with the floor forced him to take a startled breath. His lungs filled with water. Drat.

Sherlock tried to pull away from John so that he could finish the resulting choking fit above water where it wouldn't get worse. John however had other plans; he had an iron grip around Sherlock's shoulders holding them both underwater. Things were falling into the water, bits of building knocked down with the force of the explosion. This was far from Sherlock's mind as the edges of his already water blurred vision started to go black. Damn it all, he hated passing out.

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John let out a bubble of relief when Sherlock stopped struggling, but the relief only lasted a moment as his friend went completely slack in the water. It wasn't until that moment that John noticed the faint red stain floating away from the detective. Damn and blast, Sherlock was bleeding, not much by the stain in the water, but enough and the fact that he was now a dead weight in the water meant he was probably unconscious. John looked up, unconscious people and water didn't mix, he needed to surface.

There was no more fire, so John decided to risk surfacing. He pushed up from the bottom and sucked in a much desired lung full of air, easing the burning which had been building up. Sherlock didn't move, without the support of the water his head was slumped on his chest. John twisted and pushed off from the ground again, dragging them both to the side of the pool. The building was in tatters, most of it had fallen in, and the pool was full of bits of building material. There was only a few slight alcoves where John could get up.

With a supreme amount of effort John managed to hoist Sherlock's unconscious body out of the water. He really didn't see how someone who was built like a rake could weigh so much. He leant over his friend, damn, Sherlock wasn't breathing and he had a nasty cut over his right eye, which was already starting to bruise.

John groaned, he'd been hit in the back with something during the explosion, but other than that he was alright. John tilted Sherlock's head to the side and slammed both his fists into the other man's diaphragm. Nothing, John took a breath and repeated the blow. 'Breathe you bastard.' He snapped. Sherlock burst into a fit of coughing and John nearly passed out with relief. The detective coughed up a huge amount of water and then sucked in a great lung full of air and flopped back his eyes half closed. John couldn't resist, 'I know breathing is boring, but it is considered a life necessity.'

The slightest smile coiled the corners of Sherlock's mouth, and he gave a weak laugh. 'Thanks.' He muttered his normally deep voice raspy from all the water he'd swallowed.

Sherlock's eyes dipped closed again, so John punched him on the arm. 'Don't sleep, you probably have a concussion.' When he didn't stir John hit him harder. 'Sherlock!'

'Alright.' The reply was slightly snarky, but John ignored that and looked around.

'No sign of Moriarty.' John said. More to keep Sherlock awake than anything else. He glanced down when there was no reply, but the detective's ice shard eyes were open and watching him. 'I won't be convinced he's dead until I see a body.' Sherlock finally answered.

John nodded, with someone like Moriarty that was probably the best way to go. 'Shouldn't be too long before they start searching the rubble, that explosion would have drawn some attention.' John continued to ramble.

'Obviously.' Sherlock replied dully. His eyes were a little unfocused and he was paler than usual. John looked around, Sherlock was still half in the water, but John didn't want to move him too much. The detective shifted his weight a little and winced, raising one hand to his forehead. 'Hmm.' He murmured discovering the blood which was now trickling down the side of his face. John glanced up most of the building was still intact, though the roof had almost completely caved in and the walls were leaning perilously to the side. _Come on_, he thought, someone hurry up.

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Lestrade stepped out of the police car almost before it had stopped. Emergency services were already in place looking through the rubble of the swimming pool for anyone. Lestrade looked down at his phone, he had been calling Sherlock and leaving increasingly abusive messages on his phone, but the consultant hadn't even sent a text in reply. The fact that a bomb had gone off was too much of a coincidence. Lestrade just didn't know what they had done wrong, or what Sherlock had done wrong this time to result in the explosion.

'Everyone quiet.' One of the rescue sergeants yelled, everyone immediately fell still, straining their ears to hear the slightest sound of survival. Lestrade didn't have much hope that anyone had survived this; the building was mostly collapsed and very unstable. Lestrade picked his way towards the sergeant as quietly as he could.

'Hello.' The man yelled. 'Is there someone down there?' Even Lestrade waited with baited breath. A long moment passed, and then a voice replied, heavily muffled by the layers of rubble between them. 'Yes.' A sigh of relief went through everyone present; it was always good to find someone alive at a scene like this.

'Are you hurt?' The sergeant yelled down again.

Another pause. 'No, but my friend is.'

'There is someone there with you?'

'Yes, he had a concussion...' There was a moment where there could only be heard the faintest of mutters, as though the two people trapped together were arguing. Lestrade checked his phone again, where the hell was Sherlock. 'He's awake though.' The voice called out.

'Good, try and keep him that way, we're going to dig down and get you.'

The voice didn't reply. 'Sorry sir, but I'm going to have to ask you to back off a bit so we can get them out.' The sergeant said. Lestrade nodded and returned to stand by the car.

It took nearly an hour to dig through the rubble to the two trapped men. Lestrade looked up as a cheer went through the rescuers. Sherlock still hadn't replied and according to his landlady, both he and Dr. Watson had rushed out earlier that night.

Lestrade picked his way to where the medics were waiting as the first man was pulled out. He went perfectly still; he would recognise that build and mop of dark hair anywhere. Sherlock Holmes was lifted out of the hole which had been created and passed onto the medics. The detective was complaining already, Lestrade knew that he hated to be fussed over. 'Sherlock, what the hell are you doing here?' No point fussing or he would just get ignored; treat the incident like Sherlock had turned up unexpectedly at a crime scene and Sherlock would probably answer his questions.

Sherlock waved away a paramedic who was trying to look into his eyes and he sat up. Lestrade could see the effort it took, the man had a nasty cut over one eye and his eyes were out of focus, he was also soaked to the skin. Lestrade assumed he had been in the pool and that was how he had survived the explosion. 'Oh good Lestrade, look the bomber was in there with us, name of Jim Moriarty, short, dark hair, expensive clothes, insane, you know the type. Now where the hell is John?' Sherlock reeled off.

'Look you really need to...' The medic snapped.

'Go away.' Sherlock cut her off, his eyes on the workers in front of them, waiting impatiently for his flatmate to be pulled out. Lestrade wondered if the Doctor was alright. Moments later he had his answer. John was able to walk out of the collapsed building himself, though he was limping again and supported on one side by a third medic. As soon as he saw Sherlock, still trying to keep the two medics at bay, sitting up on the gurney he snapped at his friend. 'Sherlock will you lie down and do what you're told.'

The detective paused, then grumbled and dropped back onto the cushions obediently. Lestrade was absolutely amazed; he had never seen Sherlock do what he was told, ever. The medics gave Dr. Watson a grateful look and turned their attention back to their unwilling patient. Soon the two of them were packed into ambulances and taken to St. Bart's. Lestrade would catch up with them later; he had to start the search for this Moriarty character.

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_So what do we think? I will continue this it will just depend when I get to write it._


	2. Chapter 2

_I'm updating this story as I write it, rather than once a week. Because the chapters are shorter than my other stories the updates are possibly going to come a little quicker. It also means that there could also be gaps in updates as I struggle to make the chapters up to my standard. _

_While I know what is going to happen in this story, I haven't planned it out completely like I have for all my other stories._

Chapter 2: Hospital

John settled with a great deal of relief onto the hospital bed. He had been informed that Sherlock had been such an annoyance in the ambulance on the way that the medics had knocked him out with a cocktail of drugs. Stuff the concussion.

His friend was now unconscious in the next room and the staff intended to keep him that way for as long as possible. John smiled to himself as he lay back and closed his eyes. He knew firsthand how difficult Sherlock Holmes could be; none the less there would be hell to pay when he woke up.

At some point John must have dozed off, because when he next opened his eyes Sarah was sitting next to him. She looked like she had been crying. 'Oh John.' Sarah dropped on him when she realised he was awake. John hugged her back fiercely; it felt like forever since he had seen her. The door to the small private room opened and Lestrade stepped through followed by a nurse. The nurse busied herself with checking John over. Lestrade was smiling ever so faintly. 'Sherlock's still out like a light, they've given him a private room in case he wakes up and starts annoying the other patients, but you're going to have to go public or leave.'

John nodded to him. 'I wasn't badly hurt so I can probably be discharged.' He glanced at the nurse who nodded her agreement. 'You could probably discharge Sherlock with me. He didn't look too badly hurt and I can keep an eye on him well enough.'

'I'm not sure.' The nurse said.

John smiled, 'I am a Doctor and I can put up with him.' The nurse sniffed slightly and left the room.

Lestrade grinned. 'She hasn't met him yet, I guarantee ten minutes after he's awake the staff will be begging you to take him home.' John shook his head. People had a very low tolerance of strange and Sherlock really did have strange in spades.

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Sherlock woke feeling heavy, blurry and uncomfortable. This was why he didn't sleep; it was a very disconcerting exercise. He went to open his eyes, but they refused to obey. He frowned and tried again, success. He took in the room with one sweeping glance; it was dimly lit, medical equipment in the corner beeping softly. All of it hooked up to him.

Sherlock pressed his lips together and let the memories sort themselves out in his head. John.

Sherlock looked around again and sat up, pulling leads and IV drips out with quick tugs of his fingers. Where was John and more importantly had Moriarty survived the explosion with them?

He swung his long legs over the edge of the bed and took a step, the world rocked violently to the side and Sherlock staggered and grabbed the bed for support. The world continued its merry dipping and whirling. Sherlock took a steadying breath and considered his symptoms. Knock to the head, concussion most probable, slight oxygen depletion from breathing in pool water, god know what was in that water. The whirling could be due to sleeping, getting up too quickly, the concussion or more probably the drugs now in his system. He gave the IV a hate filled look.

Someone came into the room letting a bar of light shine in and illuminating the interior of the room. Sherlock winced as the light flashed in his eyes and sent his head back to throbbing again.

He turned his eyes onto the woman out of pure habit. He liked to know everything about the people around him. Plus it was fun watching their reactions when he reeled off their entire life story. The woman in front of him was late twenties, dark hair, dark eyes, had become engaged within the last few weeks, one child, a girl, not the daughter of the man she was engaged to. Got on well with her family, except her brother who didn't like her fiancé.

'Now, you are not supposed to be up.' She chided gently in a manner that was obviously supposed to be comforting. Sherlock glared at her. 'I have more important things to do than sit around here.' He told her, her life on his lips. Weeks of living with John had tempered that side of him. Think before you blurt out everything about someone Sherlock, it can be upsetting. Mostly Sherlock ignored him, but at this point with his head spinning and pounding he was going to let it slide.

The door opened again, Sherlock lifted his head ready to glare through the light at the newcomer probably a doctor. It was, but at least it was a welcome doctor, John gave him a withering look as he stepped through the doorway, followed closely by Lestrade. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but sat back on the bed. The nurse shifted around behind him and tried to reinsert the IV. Sherlock pulled his arm away, it had taken him a long time to get off drugs before, he wasn't going to start again.

'I'm going home, but the doctors want to keep you in overnight to make sure you haven't got any more serious injuries.' John told him, as he settled in the chair next to the bed. Sherlock relaxed back into the cushions. John was walking stiffly, probably sore from their tumble into the pool. 'Fine.' Sherlock said.

John looked surprised he wasn't going to argue. Sherlock needed to think and if he was back at Baker Street then John would fuss, like he always did. At least here, he could feign sleep. 'Just tell them no drugs.' He snapped at the nurse. The woman glared back at him, but left the room.

Finally, Sherlock turned to Lestrade. 'You haven't found a body.' He told the police detective. That could mean anything, unfortunately.

Lestrade shook his head. 'Dr. Watson told us roughly where he was standing when the bomb went off. We haven't finished going through the site, but so far nothing.'

Sherlock settled back into his cushions and rubbed his face with his hands. 'It's not surprising, after all we survived.'

'We weren't as close as he was to the bomb, and I didn't see him move at all before the explosion.' John said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and immediately wished he hadn't when the world did another dramatic dip. 'Doesn't mean anything.' He mumbled. There were several minutes of silence where the remaining drugs in Sherlock's system tried to drag him back to sleep and then John spoke up. 'Well I let Mycroft know what happened.' Sherlock groaned. That was just what he needed. 'He didn't sound surprised and told me to tell you that if you are going to hunt down master criminals then expect to get blown up.' Sherlock hid a smile behind rubbing at his eyes again; that was typical Mycroft.

There was a rustle of material, 'I don't want to be in here any longer than I have to be. If you haven't come back tomorrow I'm going to start tormenting the staff.' Sherlock told his flatmate.

'See you tomorrow then.' John said and pushed himself slowly to his feet.

Lestrade got to his feet as well. 'I'll keep you posted.' He said.

John paused momentarily as they departed. 'Oh and Sherlock, get some sleep will you.'

Sherlock settled back in the dim room and let his mind roam. At some point during his thinking, he was dragged back to sleep.

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John pulled out his key and let himself into 221B. Mrs. Hudson met him at the door, she looked worried. 'Did you see that explosion at the pool, dear me terrible, so many explosions these days.' She paused and took him in, his clothes were tattered and still damp and he must have looked tired. 'Deary me, you look like you could do with a nice cup of tea, come along dear.' She waved him into her flat.

John followed her and dropped into one of her kitchen chairs. He smiled faintly to himself, no _oh dear are you alright? Why are you wet? What happened? _In Mrs. Hudson's world everything could be solved with tea and if Sherlock and John appeared at the door carrying their own heads she would probably just shake her head a little and ask them if they had had a nice day.

Mrs. Hudson ambled around her kitchen talking to him, John wasn't really listening. It was a mark of how well Mrs. Hudson knew Sherlock that she hadn't asked where he was. Assuming he was hunting some criminal down probably. John drank his tea and ate one of the requisite biscuits you got when visiting their landlady and excused himself.

Once he was upstairs John looked around. Despite the mess their apartment had its advantages; Sherlock's mess hid any other mess John made and everything could normally be blamed on him. Though most people assumed that neither of them could find anything, John knew that Sherlock at least could find everything he needed in seconds. Apparently the mess had order.

The mess also prevented people from looking too closely at anything in the apartment which was useful for disguising the various experiments which were scattered around the place. It was also a bit of a danger as Sherlock tended to put things in odd places, like hydrochloric acid in the water jug. John had accustomed himself to asking before he ate anything in an open packet. The biggest disadvantage to the mess was that it could be difficult to tell if anyone had broken in and riffled through their things.

John sighed; it looked exactly the same so he was going to assume that no one had been in here. He shuffled upstairs and fell into bed fully clothed.

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_I have to admit one of the best things about writing from Sherlock's perspective is that you can come up with a whole life story for the most insignificant characters. It's kind of fun._

_There will be a few recovery chapters; after all they did live through an explosion. Then things will pick up the action._


	3. Chapter 3

_I really shouldn't be writing this, I have my exams coming up, but ideas keep popping into my head and I have to write them down. Then whole chapters are written. I'm hopeless._

Chapter 3: Detour

Sherlock was sitting up in bed when John arrived. The cut above his eye had been stitched up and looked sore though the detective didn't seem to notice. As John sat in the nearby chair Sherlock glared at him, his pale blue-grey eyes were clearer today, but his pupils were still a little out of focus. John could imagine that he had a killer headache.

'Don't sit.' Sherlock said firmly, 'Let's go.' Making a move to get up, headaches would never slow the world's only consulting detective down.

John groaned, though he had been deemed uninjured by the explosion and following midnight swim he had a flourishing bruise on his back and several other bumps and bruises which were just enough to make him want to lie down and sleep for a while. After picking Sherlock up they had to meet with Lestrade to make official statements and then John had to figure out a way to get his energetic friend to rest for a few days without driving them both insane.

'What's wrong?' Sherlock asked. John sighed; for once the sociopath was being aware of people's emotions.

'Well I did live though an explosion.' John joked weakly; Sherlock's eyes didn't shift so he added. 'I'm just a bit bumped and bruised, nothing serious. A few days rest and I'll be alright.'

Sherlock finally shifted and a look of what could only have been guilt flashed across his face. John blinked, but the mask was back in place. John groaned and heaved himself to his feet and went to fill out the discharge papers while Sherlock dressed and gathered the few possessions he had with him.

John leant against the reception counter as he filled in the paperwork. A slightly harassed looking middle aged nurse was watching him. As John wrote in Sherlock's name she snorted in irritation. John couldn't resist smiling, one night in hospital and people were sick of him. Sometimes John wondered how on earth he put up with Sherlock Holmes when no one else seemed to be able to stand even being in the same room with him for extended periods of time.

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Sherlock resisted shifting his weight around too much as we waited. His head gave inconsiderate throbs whenever he moved too fast. John was talking to the doctor who had come around that morning. The older doctor looked hassled; Sherlock took a little vindictive pleasure at that. Finally John was able to convince the other man that he was perfectly capable of taking care of things and he turned to join Sherlock at the door. Sherlock noticed that John was limping again, but this time he suspected it might have a root in an actual injury. 'About time.' Sherlock said irritably.

John rolled his eyes and pointed him in the direction of out. Sherlock took the lead out of habit, he knew his way around the hospital very well. 'Sherlock!' A familiar voice yelled out. Sherlock suppressed a wince and turned his head slowly to the side as they came to a hesitant stop.

John stood at his elbow as Molly hurried up. Sherlock tried not to watch her too closely, but habit made his mind take in all the details in her presence. She had been crying, probably someone had told her that her boyfriend had been an insane criminal mastermind, her eyes were watching him, something in them, worry, concern, anger? Sherlock's head was hurting too much to decipher exactly which emotion it was.

'What is it?' He asked. Molly looked taken aback and John shifted nervously. Apparently that had come out snappy rather than tired, oops. Sherlock looked at the pathologist, but he didn't apologise. She swallowed. 'I just...well I wanted to...' She was waiting for him to fill in the end of her sentence for her. At this point in time however, it was beyond Sherlock's concussion befuddled mind to figure out emotions he normally had to think hard to come up with. Try, he told himself, you can't risk alienating Molly, she's still useful.

Sherlock twisted his lips into the usual charming smile he used when getting his way. 'Sorry Molly, I've got a bit of a headache.' Talking helped, talking forced his brain to come up with the right words and the conclusions for what he was seeing followed smoothly afterwards. 'Yes your Jim was a crazy criminal bomber who attempted to kill us.' It still felt a little strange to consider someone else in situations like this. He'd worked on his own for so long that a companion was something that he still had to mentally adjust to. Molly had gone from nervous to something else, horror, Sherlock realised after a moment.

'You're lying.' She whispered. Sherlock looked at her; there were tears in her eyes. Sherlock was confused, okay that was probably slightly distressing news, but that wasn't what she was upset about.

'Why would I lie?' He asked, about to go one and explain exactly what her 'boyfriend' was.

John cut in. 'It's true Molly, I'm sorry.' Molly burst into tears and ran back the way she had come.

John shook his head. 'That wasn't very nice Sherlock, she probably had no idea what had happened and was coming to see if you were alright.' Sherlock blinked, there was always something wasn't there. He shrugged and took off again. It was a slightly unsteady walk, moving suddenly had sent his head rolling again. John caught up to him as Sherlock waved down a taxi outside the hospital.

'I'll apologise later.' Sherlock said. The two of them climbed into waiting taxi. Sherlock pressed his forehead to the window, enjoying the coolness seeping into his skull. 'No you won't.' John muttered. Sherlock grinned to himself, John was right, he wouldn't.

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John looked over at his dozing friend. Normally after the initial unconsciousness, people with concussions had trouble sleeping. John shook his head, Sherlock would never be considered normal.

He had told the driver to take them to Scotland Yard, but he was very tempted to go straight back to Baker Street. John sighed, if given the option Sherlock would head for the Yard he would want to know what had happened during the search for Moriarty. John settled back and watched the streets go past; there would be no living with him until he found out what he needed to know.

They arrived at Scotland Yard and John nudged Sherlock awake again. Sherlock was still pale and the blazing red gash on his forehead did nothing to improve that. Right, John thought as they got out of the taxi, get through this quickly. The two of them trooped upstairs to Lestrade's office. The desk sergeant let them through without a look. Either Sherlock's standing had gone up, or more likely they were expected.

The two of them were stopped on their way by Sally Donovan. 'Freak.' She said, in a tone that was almost a greeting. John gritted his teeth; he didn't like the nickname many of Lestrade's team had adopted for his friend. Apparently she was about to go on. Sherlock interrupted her; rolling his eyes, wincing and looking down his nose. 'Don't bother, I won't listen.' He pushed past her and made his way into Lestrade's open office. John gave Sally his now well practiced apologetic smile and quickly caught up with the taller man.

Sherlock sunk immediately into one of the waiting chairs once they were inside the small office. John took the other. Lestrade looked between them both. 'You do realise that I'm supposed to tell you off.'

Sherlock groaned faintly. 'Yes, I shouldn't have gone without backup, I should have let you know, you give me too much leeway.' He gave Lestrade his usual condescending glare.

Lestrade met Sherlock's eyes without flinching, much. 'Consider yourself reprimanded.' He said. 'Now, I need you to tell me exactly what happened.'

It took some time to cover everything that had happened after they had left Lestrade that night. John was pretty sure that Sherlock was deliberately missing some things out, but he couldn't pick out what they were. He was tired and he could see that Sherlock was as well. Before being blown up, neither of them had slept for nearly three days. While that time wouldn't normally bother Sherlock it was really pushing the limits of John's stamina.

Finally Lestrade was happy with the information he had. They hadn't recovered another body from the wreckage, but they were still hunting through the remains of the pool. Lestrade promised to keep them posted.

As they stood on the sidewalk outside of Scotland Yard John waved down a taxi. He glanced at his friend. 'I don't know about you, but I'm going home to sleep for the next three days.'

Sherlock blinked, he had one hand up shading his eyes from the weak sunlight. 'Hmph.' was the only reply John got.

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Sherlock climbed the stairs to Baker Street, he had greeted Mrs Hudson with as much enthusiasm as he could. He didn't want her to worry and John hadn't said anything to her; that much was obvious. John followed him upstairs and then immediately headed for the kitchen. 'Do you want anything to eat?' He asked.

Sherlock considered it. 'No.' Sherlock dropped his coat over the sofa arm, tossing his scarf and gloves on top of it. He was about to drop dramatically onto the couch when his head reminded him again had it had been cracked rather hard. Sherlock settled down with a little more grace than usual. 'Tea?' John called out.

'Of course.' Sherlock replied absently. He leant back into the couch, he had never considered it comfortable, but at the moment...

'Sherlock. Sherlock, if you are going to sleep go to bed.' Sherlock opened his eyes. John was looking down at him, a mug of tea in one hand.

Getting up seemed like a lot of effort so Sherlock took his mug of tea and pulled away from John's hand. John settled into his usual chair with a delighted sigh. Sherlock took a sip of tea and leant back again. John shifted slightly. 'I'm not sleeping.' Sherlock told him. Concussions were tricky things, Sherlock knew, so John would be fussing over him for the next couple of days. Irritating.

Once he had finished his tea Sherlock rolled slowly to his feet and headed into his room. Changing into pyjamas seemed like more effort than necessary, so he kicked off his shoes, shrugged out of his jacket and then dropped onto the bed. Sleep came moments later, despite the throbbing behind his eyes.

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_I hope Sherlock came out alright in this chapter. He's a hard head to get into cause you have to think so fast and think about every little thing going on around him. Worshiping bows to Benedict for pulling it off so well. _

_As I said, updates on this will come at odd times, sometimes there will be a heap at once, then nothing for a while. I am trying to finish off my other Fan Fic before I really get into this. I hate writing two stories at once._


	4. Chapter 4

_Sorry about the wait on this chapter, it was being tricksy and I really wanted to finish writing up my other story while I had the drive to._

_Anyway here it is:_

Chapter 4: Recovery

The next day was interesting to say the least. Sherlock, it turned out was just as bad a patient as John had imagined he would be. His total lack of mental filters meant that he thought out loud, all the time. Normally this meant John was permitted a look inside that brilliant mind to try and follow the blistering thought processes. When Sherlock was sick, it meant listening to a long garbled mix of random thoughts, deductions and complaints.

Although it turned out that even a concussion couldn't slow Sherlock Holmes down all that much.

Sherlock spent the first morning dozing. John had managed to convince him to take a couple of pain killers early that morning and he had foolishly thought that he would be able to spend the day in peace. This was not to be.

Once the pain killers wore off Sherlock turned his ever functioning mind to the problem which lay before them. Had Moriarty survived the explosion with them? John was convinced that he hadn't, after all he had been standing right next to the bomb. Sherlock wasn't to be convinced until the police had found a body.

John gave up debating the fact and settled down to read while Sherlock sat deep in thought on the sofa. Once in a while he would twitch irritably and hurry over to his lap top, type furiously for a few minutes, snort and return to the couch. John ignored him, it was safer that way.

John was cooking up some pasta for dinner when Sherlock's mobile rang. John paused and after turning down the element he hurried into the next room where Sherlock was holding the phone to his ear. John waited, he could hear the faint rising and falling tones of someone speaking, but he was too far to hear what was said.

Sherlock snapped the phone shut and turned his head slowly to look at John. 'No body.' He told him. 'They have scoured the entire building and there is nothing. He got away.' Far from looking upset, Sherlock's sharp grey eyes were practically sparkling with delight. John suppressed a groan and returned to the kitchen. While he watched the sauce boil he wondered which he preferred. A bored Sherlock or an entertained Sherlock with the risk of lots of people dying, them included.

John could hear Sherlock pacing in the other room and waited. One day wasn't enough to appropriately recover from a concussion. John tapped his fingers against the spoon and counted down; three, two, one. Thump. 'Ow.'

John allowed himself a small smile and went back into the living room. Sherlock was sitting slumped into the sofa, one hand against his forehead, the other rubbing his side. John leant against the doorframe and pressed his fingernails into his palm to stop himself from leaping across the room. All his medical training told him to go to his patient and make sure he hadn't hurt himself; a decent understanding of Sherlock's personality told him to employ self restraint and scold from across the room.

'Sit still, you do have a concussion you know, it's throwing your balance off.' John told him. All he received in reply was an icy scowl. John resisted the urge to roll his eyes, he had been told that he had the patience and restraint of a saint, before spinning on his heel and returning to the stove to dump pasta onto a pair of plates. He returned to the living room and held one of the plates out to his flatmate.

The detective wriggled around so he was sitting and began to pick through the meal. John had learnt quickly not to pester Sherlock about his eating habits. If Sherlock went too long without food John would make a concerted effort to get some sort of nourishment into him, but otherwise he left him to his own devices. He was almost certain that Sherlock appreciated not being bothered.

The two of them ate in silence, John happily thinking of nothing, Sherlock probably more than making up for the lack of thought in John's head.

John cleaned up after dinner and by the time he had washed the dishes, a task he never left to his flatmate, Sherlock was asleep. John propped his hands onto his hips and smiled ruefully. The taller man was half curled up on the sofa, head resting on the arm, one arm stretched so that his hand rested on the floor, phone held in half curling fingers. He was still fully dressed.

John watched him for a moment, checking to see that Sherlock's breathing was deep and even, a sign that he was actually asleep and not faking, or dead. He shook his head and threw a blanket over his friend before retiring to his own bed.

OOOOOOOO  
OOOOOO  
OOOO

Sherlock woke with a headache and a crick in his neck. He groaned and rolled off the couch with a thump. He sat up slowly rubbing the spasming muscles in his neck. His headache wasn't as bad this morning, good because he really was bored of that.

There were sounds of life coming from upstairs, John was awake. So Sherlock picked himself up off the floor, carefully, and dragged his feet into the kitchen. John had tidied up, Sherlock scowled slightly. Thankfully he didn't have any experiments running at the moment. Sherlock added water to the kettle then returned to the sofa. That was as close to domesticity as he was going to get.

John tripped downstairs and looked at him, those persistently patient eyes checking Sherlock over. Sherlock gazed back and waited. John shook his head faintly. 'Coffee?' He asked

'Of course.' Sherlock replied, stretching carefully out and kneading his neck with his knuckles. John clunked around the kitchen for a few minutes before returning with two mugs of coffee. Sherlock stretched out his hand and curled his fingers around the pleasantly warm mug and took a sip.

John was still standing watching him. Sherlock lifted his eyes and watched back. John was a fantastically easy person to read. Perhaps it was close association now, but Sherlock was almost certain that he knew exactly what was going on behind those eyes. 'It's fine.' He said answering the question which was about to come out of John's mouth.

John blinked. 'What is?'

'My head.' Sherlock told him and took another mouthful of coffee. John's confusion turned to doubt, but he didn't comment. John sat down and his attention turned to the mess of their apartment.

Sherlock watched him for a moment, amused with the considerations John was going through. He was thinking about how they met, then the army, Afghanistan, then cycling to the pool. A frown flitted across his features and Sherlock was about to comment, when his phone began to buzz determinedly. Sherlock leant forward and picked the machine off the floor and glanced at the number. Lestrade.

An unfamiliar twinge went through Sherlock's chest; he ignored it and answered the phone. 'Sherlock Holmes.'

_Sherlock, I need you to come to Chiswick._ Lestrade sounded annoyed. 'Address.' Sherlock demanded standing swiftly and disguising the accompanying dizzy swirl as a lunge for his coat and scarf.

John snatched his own coat and pulled it on as Lestrade gave Sherlock the address. Sherlock snapped his phone shut and returned it to his pocket, tugging his scarf tight against his throat. As they made for the door he glanced at John. 'No argument?' He queried.

John just looked at him. 'Would you listen?' Sherlock smirked and stepped onto the street and waved for a taxi. This had to be about Moriarty; otherwise Lestrade wouldn't have called him out. Sherlock could barely contain the bubbling excitement, the thrill of the chase.

* * *

_Not entirely happy with that chapter, but it's out of the way now. I can get on with the interesting bits now._

_Please remember that I am from Australia and have never been to England let alone London. When I pick a place I am basically going into Google Earth and stabbing a finger down onto the map of London. If things aren't correct about the place I pick, sorry._


	5. Chapter 5

_Inspiration burst, I just watched the unaired pilot episode of Sherlock. Did some fangirl squealing with my sister and sat down and wrote this chapter. _

_I realised in doing this chapter that writing Sherlock's deductions and following explanations is hard work, no wonder Conan Doyle didn't do them much._

Chapter 5: The Body

Lestrade waited patiently at the front door to the empty house. The forensics team had done a preliminary sweep of the room where the body had been found, but had instructions not to move anything until Sherlock got there.

Lestrade wouldn't have even called out the consultant, but the M carved into the victim's chest and the fact that one of his sergeants had identified him as one of the medics who had worked at the swimming pool explosion put too many coincidences in the same room.

Sherlock was duly called, despite Lestrade knowing that he probably wouldn't be at his best. Hell a slightly under par Sherlock was probably better than eight of his team working in tandem, though most of the police force would never admit it.

A shifting black shadow drew Lestrade's attention to the black taxi rolling to a stop in front of him. The door snapped open and John Watson stepped out, followed moments later by the long form of Sherlock Holmes.

The consultant detective looked slightly worse for wear. His black curls didn't quite cover the cut over his eye which had bruised up nicely, now spreading halfway across his forehead. Lestrade looked at him critically, he looked tired, more so than Lestrade had ever seen him. However the almost fever bright sparkling of his grey eyes showed his immense excitement. Despite his obvious eagerness his face was schooled to the usual emotionless mask.

As the two man consultant team approached him, Lestrade gave John a quick look. Sherlock noticed. 'I'm fine, now what is it?' Lestrade told himself he should really stop expecting Sherlock not to notice. John gave Lestrade a sharp nod from behind Sherlock's shoulder, he was good for active duty.

Lestrade moved on, he was used to Sherlock's behaviour and knew better than to argue with him over something so small. 'We can't be sure that this is related, but some kids discovered the body of a man in here early this morning. He's been identified as an EMT who arrived at the scene of the explosion at the pool. Forensics has left you everything.'

Sherlock was about ready to dash past him so Lestrade turned on his heel and led them through the house to the back room where the body lay.

The figure was stretched out full length on the ground, naked. One of the Forensics team had covered his modesty with a sheet, but otherwise nothing had been moved.

Sherlock pulled on a pair of disposable crime scene gloves his eyes flickering around the room as he did so, taking in everything. Then he got to work. Lestrade and John stood and watched, both of them ignoring the soft angry mutters from the forensics team. As usual Sherlock's movements were smooth and confident; he examined everything about the corpse, including the carved M in the man's bare chest.

There was only one slight hiccup, as Sherlock leant over the body to examine the other hand, he slipped slightly and pressed his hand down onto the bare chest to brace himself. John gave a violent twitch, but obviously managed to repress the urge to help his flatmate. Lestrade wasn't as restrained and took a step forwards, maybe this was a little too soon. Sherlock turned his head slightly and narrowed his eyes. Lestrade got the hint and stepped back. 'What have you got?' He asked; pulling his notebook out of his pocket and testing his pen to ensure it worked.

Sherlock rose to his feet and looked at John. Lestrade nodded to the Doctor without looked away from the detective. John stepped forward and carefully began to examine the body. He coughed softly and spoke, quietly, but with more confidence than Lestrade ever felt when giving an opinion in front of Sherlock. 'Late thirties, killed with some sort of chemical. Since he's an EMT probably a painkiller overdose, morphine maybe.'  
A quick examination of the dead man's chest and John continued, 'Administered straight into the heart, but he doesn't seem to have fought back much so the killer surprised him.' John glanced up at Sherlock who was watching with his typical ironic smirk. 'Good.' Was all the response they got. John waited an expression of infinite patience on his face, not something you commonly saw when Sherlock was involved.

Sherlock sighed and shook his head slightly, like he couldn't believe how stupid they were both being. He then began to explain, Lestrade took notes in shorthand he'd had to learn simply to take notes from Sherlock's rapid fire speeches. 'Your killer is between five foot ten and six feet in height. Heavy. He was waiting here for this fellow.  
Your victim was delivering something on wheels, an ambulance gurney most likely. You can see its tracks in the hall carpet as well as the chip it made when it bumped into the doorframe as it came into the room.' Sherlock stepped back and pointed at the exposed wooden splinters in the doorframe. 'The fact that he was waiting here meant that our killer brought the poison with him, so premeditated. He also brought a knife with him; sharp but not small enough to be a scalpel, probably a pen knife.  
Moving on, he was killed from behind, taken by surprise, but didn't struggle. After he was dead, it wouldn't take long with direct administration to the heart, he was stripped and engraved. The removal of his clothes was probably in an attempt to hinder identification which means that this man's job was an important factor in why he was killed.'

Sherlock paused and his eyes lost their focus. John had pushed himself to his feet and was watching, the usual expression of suppressed delight on his face.

Sherlock shook himself. 'Anyway. The victim is harder because of the lack of clothing; most of the available data just confirms what we already know, EMT, married.' At John's blink Sherlock motioned once again to the body beside them. 'There is a faint mark where the wedding ring has been, so not long married. Works nights, has a tendency to be a bit clumsy, note the needle stick injuries in his fingers.'

Sherlock paced around the room and paused at the window. 'He came in an ambulance, but there isn't one here. Lestrade have your people check around for abandoned ambulances, it won't be anywhere near here. Text me when you get anything else and when I can have a look in the man's house.' Sherlock turned from the window, staggered slightly, recovered and made for the door.

Lestrade didn't step aside, forcing the taller man to stop, John half a step behind him. 'Sherlock, do you think this is related to the bomber; Moriarty?' Lestrade looked directly into Sherlock's slightly out of focus eyes trying to force an answer out of the typically stubborn detective.

Sherlock's eyes were alight and the faintest note of a smile twitched his lips upwards. 'Oh, I have no doubt about that.' He pushed past Lestrade and vanished out of the house. John followed swiftly on his heels.

Lestrade stepped aside to allow forensics back into the room to do a full sweep and remove the body.

* * *

_I was going to do this scene from Sherlock's point of view, but it made my head hurt. So I fell back onto plan B, I think I like it better this way anyway._


	6. Chapter 6

_I wrote this chapter ages ago and forgot to put it up. Whoops. Ah well it made it there in the end._

Chapter 6: Lunch and Theories

Sherlock stepped out of the taxi and into the crowd. Normally when walking through London he would look at people only on the surface, examining them for the vital details of their life, job, family and state of their life.

Looking too hard was an information overload which normally gave him a headache, at the moment the pressure in his temples was bad enough without the added strain of automatically registering every detail about the people around him. So he tried not to look. It wasn't easy and gave an uncomfortable feeling of being blind, but Sherlock put up with it.

John caught up with him just as Sherlock was pushing open the door to the small restaurant. As soon as they stepped into the interior Sherlock and John were set upon by a perky waitress. Sherlock looked her over, she was new or she would have just waved him to his normal seat. 'How can I help you?' She asked brightly. She gave them the usual big empty smile that came with purposefully being polite to everyone.

Sherlock noted everything of importance about her; recent break up with boyfriend, university student, lived with her sister and her sister's three cats. Dull. So he turned his mind to the more important and infinitely more interesting murder that he had on his hands. 'Sherlock Holmes, I have a standing reservation.' He told her and pushed, none to gently past her to the table at the window where he always sat.

Sherlock shrugged out of his coat and dropped into his seat, removing his scarf and gloves with a tug. John followed moments later carrying a single menu. The waitress was moving off to the back, slightly pacified by John's easy smile and apology.

Sherlock waited patiently while John started to read the menu impassively. George's head peeked out from the kitchen and the waitress peered around the restaurant's owner, her eyes narrowed slightly at Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded to George who beamed and flapped his hand in greeting and the usual explanation to order whatever he wanted before he withdrew. The waitress returned to her post by the door looking chagrined.

John looked up. 'Why are we here?'

Sherlock leant back into his chair and rubbed his throbbing forehead. It felt as though someone was pressing hard onto his temples, and it was making it hard to think. 'Lunch, what else?'

John looked back down at the menu, while he started to fish through his pockets. 'You never eat when you're on a case.' He noted and then pulled out a small packet of white pills. Sherlock started to protest, and then he noticed the packaging, paracetamol. Normally he wouldn't have accepted, but he needed to think and at the moment it just wasn't working for him.

He accepted two of the pills and swallowed them without argument. John didn't comment, but Sherlock noted the faint smirk quirking his lips. John was pleased. Sherlock resisted commenting.

Sherlock settled back into his chair and tried not to think while the painkillers took effect. A second waitress wandered over and took John's order without even glancing at him. She was an older employee and knew the standard where he was concerned.

As soon as the waitress was gone John turned to him. 'So any ideas?' He leant forward in eagerness.

Sherlock looked back at him. 'What do you think?' He was always interested to see how much of his methods John managed to pick up. John frowned and toyed with his napkin for a moment, 'Okay, if we assume Moriarty survived the explosion, there is no way he got out unscathed. So maybe this EMT guy is working for him, so he takes Moriarty to Chiswick where another lackey is waiting. Then Moriarty has him killed to make sure he doesn't talk. I can't imagine Moriarty would want anyone knowing he survived, he'd be able to work better if you thought he was dead.' John looked up, eyes curious.

Sherlock smiled faintly. 'Not bad John. However since no body was found then we assumed that Moriarty survived.' Several possible ideas slammed their way through his headache and danced their way across Sherlock's mind. 'Exactly, we would assume he was alive.' Sherlock mused. Maybe that was it; this was about making sure Moriarty was alive or at least well. The gurney showed that whatever had been delivered wasn't able to move on its own, which meant Moriarty had been badly injured at the very least.

Sherlock leant forward and pressed his fingers to his lips in thought. John was watching him, waiting. Sherlock appreciated the silence while he analysed each idea and set it aside for later or discarded it completely. He had very little to go on so far. They sat in silence until John's meal was carried over and deposited on their table.

Sherlock sat back with a sigh of frustration, he didn't have enough information. Data; he definitely needed more data. 'There are several possibilities; however this episode relies largely on Moriarty being alive and well. Until we have more information we cannot possibly conjecture as to the exact nature of the reasoning behind this.'

John looked up from his plate. 'What's the point through, if Moriarty's alive and kicking why kill the EMT?'

Sherlock shook his head carefully, the throbbing behind his eyes was dimming slightly, but he didn't want to awaken it again. 'Not a clue. The house should give us more data.' John nodded thoughtfully and went back to his lunch.

Sherlock closed his eyes and ignoring the smells and sounds of the restaurant around him he drew the image of the dead body in the empty room back to his mind's eye. He examined everything about it again, going over the information again and again. Sometimes that worked, he would eventually spot something that he had missed, not this time though. The memory of his concussion induced headache poked him warningly. So Sherlock opened his eyes and pulled John into a conversation about something else entirely. No point forming any theories without any facts.

_

* * *

_

This is just another sit and recover chapter, sort of a practice chapter for me to make sure I've got writing from Sherlock's perspective down pat before I go onto the next chapter. It is hard, I tell ya. The hardest part is that I know what's going on and the reasons behind it, it makes it hard not to just sail though with all the answers. Restraint is not as easy as it sounds.

_I was hoping that this would go a little slower, but what can you do, things are just powering along no matter what I do. Anyway I suppose Sherlock isn't really one to just lie around when there is a problem to be solved, no matter what anyone says to him._


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7: Searching

John had thankfully finished eating when Sherlock's phone started to ring. Sherlock snatched it up and lifted it to his ear without a word. John set his cutlery down and habitually checked his pockets; wallet, phone, miscellaneous coins and fluff. He gave a silent wish that he had his gun with him.

When John had come home from Afghanistan he had kept the weapon as a memento, never thinking he would ever use the thing again. However barely a month after arriving home to civilian life he had shot a man with it. Now, especially after the mess at the pool, he felt as though he was unprepared to be wandering London unarmed. Especially when accompanied by an eccentric and extremely annoying detective.

'We'll be right there.' Sherlock said, stabbing the disconnect button and lurching to his feet. John followed swiftly, more in case his still woozy friend decided to make friends with the floor than a desire to hurry to a new crime scene. Sherlock paused a moment, one hand moving instinctually to his head. With what appeared to be a great deal of effort he steadied himself and nodding to the owner of the restaurant, departed. John followed close on his heels.

The lanky detective glanced up and down the street. John sighed and decided it was time to put aside being the best and only friend of Sherlock Holmes and be a doctor. 'Sherlock you should let the police handle this case. You need to rest.'

Sherlock ignored him. John gritted his teeth. 'Sherlock listen, you have a concussion. Personally I would like a day off from all the...' John struggled to find a diplomatic word. '...madness.' He settled on.

Sherlock didn't turn around, but John saw his shoulders stiffen. 'Then go home.' Sherlock's tone was purposely absent. John knew him well enough by this time to realise that John's comment had stung. He sighed; Sherlock was not used to people caring for him in any serious fashion. The only actual affection he received as far as John could determine was the misplaced and oddly invasive type from Mycroft or Mrs Hudson's affectionate ambling.

John stepped up beside Sherlock as the taller man waved down a taxi. 'I'm not saying I want to go home, it's just a general comment.' Sherlock didn't look down, but stepped confidently forward and got into the taxi. John caught the door and swung into the seat next to him. Sherlock leant forward to tell the taxi driver the address. John didn't listen. 'Sherlock.' He said calmly. He knew that it required patience to hammer through into Sherlock's attention.

'What?' Sherlock replied irritably.

John shrugged. 'Just putting in my two cents, now when Mycroft asks why I didn't stop you I can say that I tried.' He leant back into the seat, feeling smug. Sherlock blinked in surprise. Then he smiled faintly and relaxed.

'So where are we going?' John asked. He glanced out the window, but his knowledge of London streets was limited and he wasn't familiar with this area.

'The EMT's apartment, Lestrade has tracked him down.' Sherlock looked bored. John nodded. He knew that Sherlock appreciated a lot of the work that Lestrade did, however John could imagine that looking for someone's home address didn't come under the heading of _things Sherlock found interesting_.

The taxi pulled up at a pleasant little apartment block, a police car was sitting unattended at the curb. So the two of them hurried up the stairs and Sherlock pressed one of the buzzers on the wall.

John looked around with his friend, knowing full well that he wasn't seeing nearly half of what was coming across to Sherlock. The detectives pale grey eyes were oscillating as he checked the door and the labels on the buzzers as well as spinning around and examining the street.

John didn't understand what he could be looking for, after all their victim wasn't the only person to live here. John didn't comment though. He wasn't really in the mood for being called an idiot, or even for the fact to be insinuated.

'Who is it?' The slightly crackling voice over the intercom asked.

'Sherlock Holmes.' Sherlock said, leaning in a little closer to the microphone.

There was some muffled talking and then with a loud buzz the door to the apartment block opened. Sherlock hurried through and stepped into the lift, John close behind.

As they ascended to the third level Sherlock leant against the wall looking a little pale. John didn't comment, but watched him very closely. As soon as the lift ground to a halt and the soft ring indicated that the doors were about to open, Sherlock straightened and stepped confidently through the doors as though nothing was wrong.

The apartment on the right had its door open and Lestrade leant out. 'Through here.' He said and stepped back.

John and Sherlock stepped in and looked around. To John the apartment was nice, if sparse. It was clean, though clearly lived in. A young woman was sitting on the couch, her eyes were red rimmed and she had a tissue in one hand.

Sherlock gave her his usual sweeping, penetrating and dismissive look before turning his attention to the photographs on the mantle. The woman blinked and let out a startled sob. Sherlock did look a sight with the livid purple bruise on his forehead.

Lestrade didn't even bother to look annoyed. 'Sherlock, did you have any questions for Mrs. Ryder'

'No.' Came the uninterested reply. Sherlock made his way around the room, his eyes constantly moving. John often wondered how he didn't make himself dizzy doing that.

Everyone in the room was watching him silently. Lestrade and John were eagerly waiting a brilliant deduction while Mrs. Ryder watched with some trepidation.

Sherlock paced his way around the room; once he had made a second full circuit he turned and looked at Mrs. Ryder. Suddenly, with one of those flashes of rapid movement which John had finally accustomed himself to, Sherlock dashed up to Mrs. Ryder and examined her face and clothing carefully. The poor woman had given a startled shriek and was now pressing herself back into the couch.

John flinched a little, but repressed the urge to pull his friend backwards. Sherlock rose from his kneeling position and stepped backwards, thinking.

This time John did step forwards. It was a good thing too, because Sherlock's step backwards nearly turned into a topple into the carpet. Sherlock shrugged John off without so much as a thank you. John smiled, he hadn't expected anything more.

'Do you know where the money came from?' Sherlock asked the widow.

She blinked in confusion. 'What money?' She asked quietly. John sympathised with her, it couldn't be easy, having your husband die and then having to answer rapid fire and often disjointed questions.

As usual Sherlock wasn't very understanding of anyone slower than him. 'The money.' He insisted. 'That you're husband was suddenly able to access.' He waved a hand around the room. 'You were struggling with money up until recently, but now...' He trailed off, brain working at a million miles an hour. Lestrade looked around the room. John reluctantly did so as well.

Everything in the room was a little shabby, that John noticed quickly. It took him a little longer to notice the very new and very expensive kitchen appliances just visible through the open door.

Mrs. Ryder blew her nose and shrugged. 'I don't know, James...' She gave a violent sob. Sherlock glared at her. John didn't pull him up, it took effort for Sherlock to be nice and John knew that his head would be killing him, despite the painkillers. Mrs. Ryder composed herself. 'James has just picked up some extra shifts, and he said that he'd been given a raise.' She glared at Sherlock defensively. 'James worked hard, he was a good man.' Sherlock however was now ignoring her.

'Come on John, we've seen everything now. Lestrade, check up on his pay, text me.' Then with a dramatic whirl of his coat Sherlock hurried out of the room. John followed quickly. He was liable to be left behind otherwise.

Sherlock didn't say anything until they were in the taxi heading back to Baker Street. 'Interesting don't you think?' He said softly.

John glanced at him. 'That he got a pay-rise?' John asked, though he knew that wasn't what Sherlock was talking about. Sometimes it was better to play dumb.

'Don't be an idiot. Obviously he didn't get a raise, Lestrade will confirm that. No, I think it is far more likely that he was in Moriarty's employ. For what though?' Sherlock mused, settling back his eyes on the roof.

_

* * *

_

Cookies for the first person who knows where James Ryder is from.


	8. Chapter 8

_No one knew? Well for you trivia lovers, James Ryder is the bad guy from the Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle, one of the original Sherlock Holmes stories._

Chapter 8: Next

Sherlock tripped lightly up the stairs to their apartment. His headache was considerably better than it had been this morning, though that was probably due to the painkillers. Sherlock was glad; he didn't have time to think about a headache when he had such an individual little problem to solve.

He removed his coat and hung it neatly on its hook behind the door. His mind was whirring as he tucked gloves and scarf into the pockets before turning to lie on the couch.

John hung up his own coat and immediately went up to his bedroom. Sherlock let out a breath of air and considered the biggest problem with this mystery; the lack of evidence. It was typical of Moriarty, after all Sherlock doubted that his attention would have even been drawn to the pip problems if Moriarty hadn't supplied him with the first whiff of scent. So the lack of evidence was not surprising, but it was still irritating. After all he knew that this had to have something to do with Moriarty.

Sherlock sat up and glared evenly at the opposite wall. What told him that? Sherlock prowled his memory and came up with only one answer. The only reason he had thought of Moriarty was because of the recent events at the pool and the M carved into Ryder's chest. That evidence was slim at best.

If you removed Moriarty from the equation then you were left with an EMT delivering something on a gurney to an unknown man who then killed and strips the victim before branding him and leaving with the ambulance.

Sherlock considered everything. The situation made sense even if you removed Moriarty; which again was typical of his style, he shouldn't even appear in the problem. Sherlock pressed his fingertips to his lips; yes he would reserve judgement until he was sure. He couldn't make the error of leaping to conclusions. That was an amateur's mistake and he most certainly wasn't an amateur.

Unfortunately if you removed Moriarty from the problem, or at least sidelined him then the possibilities went from few to many. Sherlock focused his eyes on the ceiling and fell back into a revive; considering everything over and over again. Despite this morning's lack of success with the technique he went over everything again in the new light of no Moriarty.

At some point in his deliberations a loud bang occurred. Sherlock twitched upright again and looked around. No one around. Sherlock shook his head and went back to thinking.

'The problem, John, is that if we sideline Moriarty then we are left with nothing, the sudden influx of money would have meant that he could have paid off any debts he owed. Unless we can find someone else with a grudge then we have nowhere to go. Good? Yes, however if we accept that Ryder was working for Moriarty in some capacity, probably transporting something, then we are stuck with where is Moriarty now? There wasn't enough information at the crime scene to tell us anything about the man waiting for the delivery. In which case we have to wait for Moriarty to re-emerge.' Sherlock mused. There was no reply so Sherlock went back to staring thoughtfully at the wall.

OOOOOOOO  
OOOOOO  
OOOO

John suppressed a groan as he settled into his office chair. He really had deserved the hushed telling off Sarah had just given him. He had totally forgotten to call her and tell her what had happened. He had been caught up with bloody Sherlock.

He glared at the intercom; he had been shifted on today and had made the decision to come in despite the case currently on. After all Sherlock's job didn't take precedence over John's job. Besides he didn't get paid to help Sherlock with his work. John sighed and pressed the buzzer firmly and then picked up the first file on his desk and flicked through it.

John soon re-discovered that it was hard to listen to people complain about simple little aches and pains when you yourself was sore. I mean come on, so your throat was a little sore this morning, he had survived an explosion, stop complaining.

John however bit his tongue; smiled sympathetically and went on with his job. Three hours and twelve patients later John sat back into his chair and pulled out his phone. It had been humming irritably at him for the last few minutes.

_We need milk. SH_

_Lestrade confirmed, no pay-rise, definitely in someone's employ. No sign of ambulance. SH_

John shook his head, it was highly likely that Sherlock had only noticed that he wasn't in the flat a few minutes before he had sent the first text. Probably when asking for tea. None-the-less John made a mental note to pick up milk on his way home, he only had two more patients to see and then he could go home. He flicked to the last message.

_Something isn't right. SH_

John frowned at that one, but passed it off as Sherlock thinking aloud. Then his phone buzzed again. John opened the newest message.

_Head hurts. SH_

John sighed and opened a new window._ Paracetamol in the bathroom cupboard, take two._

_This is very inconvenient. SH_

_Yes well, not much I can do about it._

John waited a few minutes but nothing happened so he stowed his phone back in his pocket and buzzed for the next patient.

OOOOOOOO  
OOOOOO  
OOOO

A loud bang and Mrs Hudson's cheery voice alerted Sherlock to John's arrival home. Sherlock had taken the prescribed painkillers and was now feeling irritably dulled. John shuffled through the door with the shopping and what smelt like Chinese takeaway and after giving Sherlock a surprisingly penetrating look proceeded to the kitchen to put the groceries away.

John returned to the living room and dropped a packet of food and a fork onto the table next to Sherlock's head. 'Getting anywhere?' He asked, settling into his own chair.

Sherlock snorted and pushed his food away. He knew that the offer was just that, he could eat if he wanted to, but John wouldn't pester him.

John rarely made comment about his eating habits, something Sherlock was actually grateful for. 'No.' He said in answer to the question. 'I'm missing something, some fact which will make everything fit together.'

John nodded and picked through his noodles. 'Sleep on it.'

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John cut him off with a glare. 'Look the concussion won't be helping you're mental processing, sleep is the best medicine take my word for it.' Sherlock settled back, admittedly sleep was sounding like a decent idea. He didn't normally need much, but he supposed that in wake of the current injury it was for the best. 'Fine.' He said, trying not to sound too accepting.

'Good.' And that was the final word for the night.


	9. Chapter 9

_Sorry there's been a bit of a gap in updates, I got distracted and it took me ages to work out just how I was going to write the next few chapters, I didn't want to start and then decide that I didn't like the way it was going._

Chapter 9: More than Necessary

John was woken the next morning by being vigorously shaken. 'Huh...what?' He muttered as he opened bleary eyes. Sherlock was leaning over him surrounded in a halo of light from the bulb suspended from the ceiling above his head. 'Come on John, we've got work to do.'

'What time is it?' John grumbled as he sat up, he didn't bother trying to peer at the clock face on his bedside table.

'Five thirty.' Sherlock replied stepping back from the bed. 'Lestrade just phoned, they found the ambulance.' He paused, grey eyes stabbing into John telling him to get himself into gear. 'And another body.'

John looked up from where he was hunting through his wardrobe for a clean shirt. They really needed to do some laundry. 'Another body? The same as the last one?'

Sherlock twitched his shoulders. 'Apparently it has some similarities.' He spun on his toe and vanished downstairs. John threw himself into his clothes and hurried after him, nearly tripping down the stairs. Even since that first case when Sherlock had just vanished whenever he felt like it John was never sure if he would be left behind or not. It was better to kick into overdrive and try and keep up. Good thing his limp had not come back.

The taxi ride to the crime scene was tingling with excitement. Sherlock was sending off texts as fast as his fingers could move and John was shifting in his seat ready for action.

They arrived at the crime scene, another abandoned house. Crime scene tape had been stretched around the boundary and was guarded by several uniformed policemen and Sally Donovan. Sherlock sprung out of the taxi, shoving several notes into the hands of the sleepy cabbie. John wriggled over and jumped out shutting the door. Sherlock was already crouching under the crime scene tape.

The policeman nearby gave them both a nervous glance and shuffled his feet. John noticed Sherlock's eyes turned on him, but as the young man said nothing Sherlock followed suit. Instead the detective looked over at Donovan. The fierce sergeant was glaring at them, but she clenched her teeth and jerked a finger over her shoulder towards the house and turned her back on them. Sherlock smirked. 'Someone's been told to play nice.' He noted.

John looked at him. 'You don't think that maybe she's just getting used to you?' He tried to keep the amusement out of his voice, but didn't entirely succeed.

Sherlock turned his head for a second look. 'No.' He said after a moment's consideration.

John grinned and the immediately had to suppress the smile as they entered the sombre house. After John had donned the blue suit and booties and Sherlock had found himself some gloves they headed to the back of the house.

Lestrade met them at the door. 'I couldn't stop the forensics going through everything before you got here, they say everything is in the same place, they're just waiting to take the body out.' Lestrade looked tired; John wondered how much sleep he'd actually had in the last few days.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he stepped past. John followed him rolling his eyes. It wasn't like Sherlock wouldn't know what had been touched anyway; he was as bad as a child wanting to be the first to play with a new toy. The body was set out almost the same as the first body, naked with an 'M' burnt into his chest. The man was a giant, in width as well as height, not the sort of person you wanted to see without clothes. John frowned and leant forward focused on the stab wound in his abdomen, trying to block everything else out.

While John did a few on the spot calculations Sherlock minutely examined the body. He stood up slowly and removed his gloves. 'The same instrument made the two brands, a thin dull object which had been heated. It was done after he was dead. John.' Sherlock glanced at him and did that irritating eye flick which told him firmly that it was his turn. John coughed and threw a glance Lestrade's way. The Detective Inspector rolled his eyes and nodded.

John knelt next to the body and examined the wound closer up just to confirm his suspicions. He spoke aloud as he looked; glancing up occasionally to ensure that he wasn't going totally off-track. 'The wound went up through the liver; by the angle it would have done a fair bit of damage and bled a lot. So he wasn't killed here, not unless the killer cleaned up the area really well as well as the body.'  
He glanced up, Sherlock was looking pleased; Lestrade just looked like he wanted to go home. So John coughed again and focused. 'Right so, odd calluses on his hands so he uses them a lot, no idea what for...' John sort of petered out at that point, what else was there to look at?

Sherlock sighed, 'Not bad, Lestrade you know who he is of course.'

Lestrade nodded. 'Jack Woodley.'

John frowned and stood. 'Who?'

'We've been looking for him for a good while, he's a big time crook, got a finger in every pie. Drugs, theft, murder you name it Jack Woodley's been a part of it.' Lestrade said. 'The problem is that we've never been able to pin anything on him directly, some small fry's always gone down for him on those things which have gone south.'

John threw a covert glance at Sherlock; the detective noticed the look and gave a slight nod. That could fit with the Moriarty angle. Lestrade continued. 'But what could he possibly have done to get himself killed in this way?'

Sherlock frowned, 'There are several possibilities.' He mused. 'Moriarty seems at the moment to be the most logical association, but why?' He seemed genuinely puzzled and delighted that he was puzzled. There was a cough from the door, one of the forensic team ready to take the body.

Lestrade nodded to him. 'Right, so do you want to see the ambulance? It's been impounded.'

'Of course.' Sherlock replied absently and made for the door. They both recognised the signs of Sherlock's mind at work and left him to it, trailing behind.

OOOOOOOO  
OOOOOO  
OOOO

Sherlock pulled on the requisite gloves in the impounding yard. He examined the ambulance intently as he did so. From the outside there was nothing special; average ambulance the mud on the tires came from a variety of places around London. 'It was found a few miles north of the first crime scene, parked neatly at the road side.' Lestrade said. Sherlock nodded, that fit with the freshest mud on the tires.

Sherlock opened the back doors and climbed in. John and Lestrade stood on the ground watching him. All the forensics people had left after they had arrived, Sherlock was glad; it was much easier to work when there was no one bothering him. He looked around, picking various bits of equipment up and looking it over. There wasn't much here, the faint smell of explosives and chlorine and some dried blood. 'Do you have results from the blood?' He asked Lestrade without looking up from the marks, it wasn't splatter or drips. Sherlock tilted his head to get another view. 'Yeah, nothing in our records.' The DI replied.

Sherlock smiled, the blood was in smears, very little blood, that was suggestive. He abandoned the back of the ambulance and checked the front. The driver's seat was well worn, but there were no personal affects in the front. 'He left the paramedics at the pool.' Sherlock said.

Lestrade nodded. 'Yeah, we contacted the hospital and they said that two of their paramedics had been abandoned at the site with no idea what had happened to their driver.'

Sherlock nodded, the idea forming in his head was slowly starting to make sense, it seemed to be the only solution considering who the two dead men were. He dropped down to the ground and removed his gloves, he was pleased to note that his head was no longer spinning when he moved too fast, but it was still throbbed. Sherlock resisted rubbing the bump on his forehead. 'Well anything?' John asked.

Sherlock looked at him, John was watching him with that surprisingly piercing look. Sherlock turned smoothly and discarded his gloves. 'A possibility is arising. I would not be surprised if Jack Woodley was in Moriarty's employ, and as this is the ambulance which was driven by James Ryder to take Moriarty away from the pool, then we have a link. There are only a few more points which need clarifying.'

'What?' Both Lestrade and John asked.

Sherlock didn't answer, he was making for the door. He had to talk to some people. As soon as he reached the door there was the sharp rap of shoe soles on the cement floor when the other two followed him. Sherlock lead them quickly through the station. 'Keep me posted Lestrade.' He told the DI, shrugged into his coat and pulled his scarf around his neck.

Once they were outside Sherlock waved down a cab and turned to John. 'Go back to Baker Street; I'll meet you there in a few hours.' Without giving John time to comment he jumped into the backseat and pulled the door closed. He left John standing at the curb side with a face like a thundercloud.

_

* * *

_

Jack Woodley is another classic Sherlock Holmes baddy; I thought he was an appropriate choice for this character.

_I'm not giving too much away at this point even when writing from Sherlock's perspective, however a lot will be revealed in the next chapter; whenever I get a chance to write it._


	10. Chapter 10

_Another bit of a big gap; I got distracted. But enough excuses, surprisingly we're nearly there; there are only a few more chapters to go._

Chapter 10: Body Count

John settled into his armchair and flicked the television on. He'd run out of names to call Sherlock by the time he'd reached the door to their flat so John settled on watching television. He decided after fifteen minutes of not taking anything in, that he didn't mind Sherlock going off on his own it was not knowing where he was going that bothered him. John groaned and thunked himself on the forehead, now he was sounding like a clingy girlfriend.

John shook himself and jumped to his feet. His stomach gave an insistent growl reminding him that he hadn't eaten anything since a fast cup of tea at five-thirty and it was now past noon. He trooped into the kitchen and began the usual hunt through the kitchen cupboards to try and determine where Sherlock had moved all the food to.

When he had first moved in John had thought that all food got eaten incredibly quickly. He'd managed to convince himself that this wasn't all that surprising considering that the house was inhabited by two males. Admittedly Sherlock ate like a bird and hardly counted. However he had soon discovered that Sherlock rearranged things in the kitchen around his experiments.

In what Sherlock considered a polite attempted to stop John from being poisoned, he moved the food away from whatever he was doing at the time. However this did mean that things migrated around the kitchen faster than John could keep up with.

John made himself a sandwich from the food he discovered stored neatly in the oven and settled down to eat it. Three bites in and his phone was buzzing. John looked at the number. With a grimace he opened the message. _Come now, another body. SH. _John set his phone down and went back to his lunch. Moments later the phone buzzed again. John smiled, took a sip of his tea and glanced at the address that Sherlock had just supplied him with. He sighed and took the remains of his lunch with him.

John arrived at the address to find Sherlock already busy examining the body. John pulled on a pair of gloves handed to him by a surly forensic assistant and eyeballed the body. By the amount of blood he was killed at the site, and his throat had been slit. 'Very professional.' Sherlock noted, 'Don't you think John.'

John looked down at his lanky friend. 'Yes, the cut went straight through both jugulars and carotids. Death would have been pretty quick and relatively silent.' And messy, very messy, but everyone could see that. Bile rose in John's throat as memories of staunching blood flows rushed back, he forced the thought away.

Sherlock nodded firmly and stood up, breaking John's grizzly memory cycle. Lestrade walked into the room, re-reading something written in his notebook. 'Well.' He asked without looking up. 'What can you tell me?'

Sherlock paced around the body. 'He rides a motorcycle, most likely a sports-bike does lots of writing, has been in prison for a short period of time in the last year and has recently come up in the world. He was killed here, unlike the last victim. The M was done with the same instrument as in the last two cases.' Sherlock pressed his fingers to his lips; his eyes flickered around the room and the body.

Lestrade nodded, 'That fits with what we know of him.' Sherlock looked over and quirked an eyebrow waiting for more information. Lestrade checked his notebook. 'His name is Alexander Cunningham, he's spent some time in jail for theft and when he came out; he came into money. As far as we know he hasn't gone back to crime, but he's unemployed so we have no idea where the money is coming from.'

Sherlock nodded firmly as though this merely confirmed everything he already knew. John frowned, another person with an unknown source of large amounts of money. Could it possibly be another link to Moriarty? He glanced at Sherlock; however the detective was now clicking through his phone at the usual lightening speed. 'This murder was done by someone different.' He said thoughtfully.

Lestrade looked up from his notebook. 'What? But...the M...it's the same?'

Sherlock nodded. 'Yes, the motive is the same, but murderer is a different person, this was done with the left hand, the other was done with the right. Come on John.' John looked at the wounds, how could he not have noticed that? He then realised he was being left behind and hurriedly followed his friend from the building.

OOOOOOOOO  
OOOOOOO  
OOOO

As soon as they arrived home, Sherlock settled back on the couch and let his mind consider the plethora of new information. With the addition of the text he had receive in the taxi, everything made sense with his theory; the murders were someone cleaning up, Moriarty most likely.

There was only one thing that didn't fit. The M's carved into the dead men's chests. What was the point? All it had done was to draw everyone's attention to the victims and their reason for being killed. Sherlock absently pressed a second nicotine patch to his forearm and leant his head back into the arm rest of the couch. Why, why, why? Sherlock had no idea how long he lay there, his mind buzzing over with facts. Time was so unimportant. There was a soft clatter of crockery from the kitchen; John making tea.

Then it hit him, Sherlock's eyes snapped open. 'Of course, it's obvious.'

'What is?' John asked; now standing in the doorway with two mugs of tea in his hands.

Sherlock sat up quickly, pleased to note that his head didn't spin quite so much as it had been. 'The M, it didn't fit. Moriarty wouldn't have an assassin carve an M into the victim's chest, it's too obvious and after the events at the pool would lead us right to him.' John blinked at him.

Sherlock recognised the look and gave an exasperated sigh. 'The M ensures we think of Moriarty, what if thinking of Moriarty is exactly what our killer wants? All these people worked for Moriarty in one way or another.' Sherlock paused as he filled out the rest of his theory. 'Cunningham was a messenger for Moriarty, I've looked into a variety of people who have recently come into money strangely.' He added in response to John suddenly look of confusion.

Sherlock rose to his feet and paced rapidly across the room. 'Therefore the last two victims were two people who would have had regular contact with Moriarty himself, so they would have to be got out of the way if someone was trying to run the organisation as though Moriarty was still alive.'

John shook his head. 'What about James Ryder?'

'Obvious John, he was the one who pulled the body from the pool making him the only person who knew Moriarty hadn't survived the explosion. Like I said, it was all about making sure Moriarty was alive. Ryder had to be killed to ensure he didn't pass the knowledge on to anyone else.'

John nodded slowly, processing everything. Sherlock hummed irritably and rapped his fingers on his forearms. Sometimes John could be very slow, but Sherlock was waiting for the question he knew had to be coming. 'Okay, makes sense.' Another pause. 'So who's taken over from Moriarty?'

Sherlock grinned happily at his friend. 'Exactly John.'


	11. Chapter 11

_This chapter was surprisingly hard to write, I know what I want to do and what I need to say, but saying it turned out to be incredibly difficult. I have to say, writing this story has been much harder than any of the others I've written. Sherlock requires a greater attention to detail than I realised when I started._

Chapter 11: Location

Sherlock stood up suddenly; his eyes had caught the clock at the corner of the laptop screen and reminded him that he was going to be late if he didn't leave now.

He jumped to his feet carefully. No spinning. Suppressing a relieved smile Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf from the hook at the back of the door. John was asleep upstairs so Sherlock slipped silently down to the front door and waved down a taxi. It was early morning and he had a meeting with a thief.

This particular criminal had been informing Sherlock of the various underground movements of the criminal underworld ever since Sherlock had gotten him off of a robbery charge. He had been innocent of that crime, even if he had been guilty of several others. Sherlock had sent him a message yesterday asking him to look into who seemed to be rising through the ranks quickly. He'd received a reply that morning to meet his informant at eight. Sherlock glanced at his phone to check the time, five to eight, he was going to be perfectly on time.

The taxi pulled up and Sherlock stepped out, handing over his money without really looking. He looked up at the abandoned building in front of him. The door had been opened recently; so he was here then. Sherlock smiled and pushed open the door and stepped inside.

_OOOOOOOO  
OOOOOO  
OOOO_

John groaned as he opened his eyes. The house was suspiciously quiet. Admittedly Sherlock's violin hadn't been getting much of a work out in the last few days. Playing loud music right next to your ear when you had a concussion wasn't good in anyone's books; besides Sherlock had been too busy with the Moriarty case. However this was the wrong kind of quiet, this was Sherlock is missing quiet.

John got dressed quickly and headed downstairs. He looked around the flat. Sherlock laptop was closed, but still running and his coat was gone from the hook. John looked around the flat and considered. Should he be worried, or shouldn't he? John sighed and pulled out his phone. _Where are you?_ He sent the message and then settled down for breakfast.

A door opened and closed downstairs and John paused, cup halfway to his lips. A soft cheerfully tittering voice floated up the stairs and another door opened and closed. John shook his head and took another mouthful of tea. It was Mrs. Hudson. He threw a glance at his silent phone. He shouldn't be surprised; Sherlock never answered his phone unless he was waiting for an answer from you.

John threw a glance at his watch and hurried upstairs to get ready for work.

The day ticked by slowly, John utilised all his will power and didn't check his phone once during his shift. However as he was stepping out of the surgery; having ducked into Sarah's office for a quick goodbye, John pulled out his phone and checked his messages. There were two; both from Sherlock.

_Have found something. SH. _John blinked at that one, it was proper Sherlock vague. The second promised a little more._ Lestrade will pick you up at four be ready. SH._ John whipped his hand up and looked at the time. Three thirty, plenty of time. Nonetheless John waved down a taxi and stepped in.

By the time four O'clock rolled around John was as ready as he could be. He had changed his neat suit and dress shoes for clothes which he was a little happier to get ripped or dirty and after a bit of internal debate he'd tucked his gun in his belt hidden by his jumper. The ring at the door was all John was waiting for and he hurried down the stairs. The fact that Sherlock had solved this mystery, something which so intimately involved both of them was both a relief and a shot of adrenaline. So everything John craved once in a while.

However, everything Moriarty had done so far had put people in danger. It was entirely possible that John was going to get killed tonight. He pushed that thought out of his mind, better not to think about it.

John opened the door to Inspector Lestrade. The greying detective looked reluctant. 'Ready?' He asked. John nodded and pulled the door to 221b closed behind him. Lestrade was in an unmarked car, most likely at Sherlock's request.

The drive was silent, both men wondering what they were about to encounter. Lestrade seemed to know where he was going so John kept an eye on the streets trying to predict where they were headed.

When they arrived, John had to admit that it was a bit of a disappointment. It was an abandoned house. Sherlock was waiting in the doorway. John knew his friend well enough by now that he could recognise the excitement in his face and the way he was standing. Hope lifted, if Sherlock was this excited about what he had found then it had to be something worthwhile.

Sherlock motioned them all inside and led them silently upstairs. 'Look Sherlock I don't know what you think you're doing, but...' Lestrade said firmly.

'Quiet Lestrade, we're just watching for the moment.' Sherlock replied his voice pitched low.

'Watching for what?' John asked keeping quiet as well.

Sherlock smiled. 'For the man who planned all of this.'

'You said that Moriarty is dead.' John reminded him. Lestrade started and glared between the two of them. John winced apologetically; apparently Sherlock had failed to mention that to the policeman.

'Oh he is. We're waiting for his replacement. Someone who is almost as much of a genius as Moriarty was. The deaths were all his doing, though he carried only one of them out himself.'

'Well why are we waiting for him, if you've got proof them we can arrest him.' Lestrade said.

Sherlock smiled and settled himself on an empty crate, his eyes watching through the back window at the house across the street. 'I don't have proof, at least not the sort of proof which will stand up in a court of law. For that we need a confession. And this man is too clever to just hand everything over; we need something much better than that.'

'And you have something better?' Lestrade sounded sceptical.

Sherlock smiled in the dim room. 'Yes.' John opened his mouth to further question, but Sherlock raised a gloved hand for quiet. John and Lestrade exchanged a look and found themselves somewhere comfortable to sit. It was going to be a long and very quiet wait.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12: Finale

John glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time. It was nearly midday and they had been sitting in this dank little room for hours. John shifted in his uncomfortable seat on a wooden crate and threw a look at Sherlock. His friend was sitting perfectly still next to the window, watching out for whatever it was they were waiting for.

Any attempts to talk and ask what they were waiting for were squashed by a sharp look from Sherlock. John sighed and shifted again, earning himself a fifth glare. The glare didn't last long as all of a sudden Sherlock's eyes brightened and he sat up straighter. John leant forward carefully and noticed a tall well built man entering the house exactly opposite them.

As soon as the man was comfortably inside the building Sherlock moved. Lestrade had been sitting opposite John and jumped to his feet. 'So who was that?' He asked. Sherlock was half way to the door, but he spun lightly on his toes to face them.

'That is Sebastian Moran; he was Moriarty's second in command and is now running his organisation. He's the new consulting criminal. Not a genius like Moriarty, but clever, very clever; clever enough to realise just how to keep things running.' Sherlock turned and John immediately followed after him.

'So we're arresting him?' John asked.

Sherlock shook his head slightly. 'No evidence. Besides of the three murders he only committed the first one; even that we would have difficulty in tying him to. The police are very rigid on what they call evidence.' Sherlock's tone suggested that if he was running Scotland Yard things would work very differently.

Further comment was prevented as John and Lestrade were immediately required to race after the taller man. They hurried around the block, receiving the requisite odd looks from the various people also occupying the sidewalks. When they arrived at Moran's house Sherlock spun to face them. 'Both of you do exactly as I say, understand.'

Lestrade straightened. 'Look here Sherlock; the police are not your lap dogs. If you have information you have to tell us.'

'No time.' Sherlock replied sharply. 'However if you are not going to do what I say then you can stay here. Come on John.' John stepped up beside his friend as Sherlock rung the bell. Lestrade did some grumbling behind them, but stepped up to stand with them.

The door was opened by the man that John had seen enter the building. He was as tall as Sherlock, but well built and sporting a ridiculous looking moustache. 'Can I help you?' He asked in what could have been a polite tone, but came off with more of a mocking note.

Sherlock smiled pleasantly and pushed into the hallway. 'Sherlock Holmes and you must be Sebastian Moran.' Sherlock looked around the house; his eyes flashing around the room sharply taking everything in.

The big man straightened. 'Yes and I am well aware of who you are Mr. Holmes and you are not welcome here.' He pointed out the door, where John and Lestrade still stood.

Before anyone could speak Lestrade pulled out his badge and showed it to Moran. 'Detective Inspector Lestrade, could I have a word with you Mr. Moran?' Lestrade stepped confidently through the door and went to stand near Sherlock. John hurried after him, pulling the door closed after him.

Moran's eyes narrowed. 'Of course, please come through.' He motioned down the hallway and pushed past the three of them. John followed his companions down the hallway into a warm and very comfortable room. Everyone took a seat. 'Well DI Lestrade, what would you like to talk to me about?' John decided that he didn't like Moran. The man was like a snake, cold and slippery.

Lestrade threw a glance Sherlock way. The detective took his cue. 'Moriarty is recovering well I assume?' Sherlock noted.

Moran's head snapped towards him and for a moment, there was a flash of outright fury on his face. 'I don't know what game you are playing, but I have no interest in it. If you have no questions for me then I would like you to leave.' He rose from his seat and moved towards the door. John had to admit that his composure was impressive, but he didn't believe the act one bit. Lestrade got slowly to his feet and looked to Sherlock.

The taller man paced smoothly to the centre of the room and loosened his scarf. 'Come now Moran, the game is up.'

'I don't know what you are talking about.' Moran replied. John glanced around the room to spot possible weapons; if this man was as dangerous as Sherlock suggested then John wanted to be prepared.

'Oh, so you know nothing of the murder of James Ryder not to mention Jack Woodley and Alexander Cunningham.' Sherlock said, spinning on his toes and smirking superiorly at Moran.

The man simply looked back at him. 'I have no idea what you are talking about, now I think it is time you left.' Again he pointed them towards the door and again Sherlock ignored him. John had to admit that Moran had some serious self control. After all, by this time most people would have either yelled at or slapped Sherlock across the face. His friend could be very obnoxious when he put his mind to it.

'Well since you are not going to oblige, perhaps I should inform Lestrade of exactly what happened after the incident at the pool.' Sherlock smiled as for the first time Moran looked slightly worried. Lestrade warily pulled out his notepad and clicked his pen.

Sherlock pressed the palms of his hands together and began. 'Jim Moriarty informed you that he would be meeting with me at the pool. He also informed you that John was to be the final bomber, he even had you organise his capture. After all, he couldn't leave something as important as John's capture to some untested man within your organisation.  
Moriarty had figured on every possible outcome of the meeting between the two of us. Including, no doubt that one of those would result in his death or incapacitation. Death was considered to be a low probability, however injury was not unsuspected and so arrangements were made.  
James Ryder had been bought a few weeks earlier; it was simple enough to ensure that his ambulance was one of the first on the scene. Admittedly there was a little bit of luck involved in ensuring that he was able to locate and extract Moriarty without anyone being the wiser.' John looked between Sherlock who was in full swing and Moran, who had gone slightly pale. At a guess, John would say that Sherlock was dead on.

His attention was drawn away as Sherlock continued. 'There was a fault in the plan however. You had James Ryder bring Moriarty to you at a predetermined address, but Moriarty was dead. The worst possible even had occurred.' Sherlock gave a small smiled of delight at the sudden flash of horror on Moran's face. The criminal got himself under control quickly. John realised that it would take a lot to break him and break him they needed to do. Sherlock was right; there was no evidence in any of what he was saying. True as it might be.

'You're intelligent thought, and cleverly you considered what this meant. Moriarty was the head of this organisation, he was the reason that this existed, and without Moriarty you would be nothing. Not something you could live with. So a plan formed. You and Ryder were the only people to know that Moriarty was dead. And the only way two people can keep a secret is if one of them is dead. He wasn't much of a challenge to kill, but you realised that the harder it would be for the police to identify the man the better. At the same time you could cast the red herring that would ensure that I would immediately think of Moriarty.' Sherlock turned to look at Moran, his bright blue eyes sparkling with energy.

'In fact that was the worst thing you could have done, in fact it revealed that Moriarty was no longer in the picture. Moriarty would never have been so obvious not without an ulterior motive, of which there was none.  
So we move onto the other two murders. Once I had deduced that the first murder was to cover up the death of Moriarty then it obviously followed that the final two murders were to continue that masquerade. The dead men were two people who had encountered Moriarty personally; they would know the difference eventually. So they were disposed of.  
The various killers which were used by the organisation were used to dealing with unknown employers so they weren't an issue, and a simple explanation of what you wanted them to do was all that was needed to link the three crimes together. The plan was beautifully simple, so much so that the police wouldn't even suspect and even I was distracted for a time. However eventually the things which didn't made sense had to fit with a theory, after that it was simply a task of finding you.' Sherlock stopped and smiled at Moran.

The man was deathly pale, but he coughed. 'Very interesting Mr. Holmes, but again you have no shred of proof. If you are hoping to get some sort of sudden confession of guilt out of me; then you are not as intelligent as I was led to believe.' Moran settled back into the chair he had sunk into.

Lestrade had taken down everything that Sherlock had said and was now looking between the two. 'Right well, we'll get out of your way now Mr. Moran, thank you for your time.' He said.

John followed his lead and got to his feet, but his eyes were on Sherlock. The lanky detective was smiling faintly; it was a look John was familiar with and one that didn't bode well for Moran. 'No matter what you do, I will catch you now. Moriarty was a different case; he was a genius, and you're not.'

Though to John it seemed like a petty insult, it was just what was needed to snap Moran. Fury flashed onto his face and John backed up and felt about for the lamp he had seen on the table next to him. 'You think he was a genius.' Moran snarled. 'He was insane, oh everything he did was just perfect to everyone, but I knew. I waited so long for the recognition I deserved, but nothing. Every day I had to deal with a madman and his mania about you. Sherlock bloody Holmes. He even got himself killed and left me to clean everything up. Well I cleaned it up, cleaned it up so well even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't figure it out.' The reputable facade was gone, replaced with blind rage.

Lestrade reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. 'Sebastian Moran, I'm placing you under arrest for the murder of James Ryder you do not have to say anything, but anything you do say may be taken down as evidence and used against you in a court of law.' John expected Moran to fight, but instead he levelled a hate filled glare at Sherlock, who returned it with his usual uninterested look. Now that a confession had been made, Sherlock has no interest in the case any longer.

Lestrade snapped the handcuffs into place and glanced at Sherlock. 'I'm going to assume that someone is waiting with a police car outside for me.'

'You would assume correctly.' Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

There was a sudden bustle of activity as Moran was removed to the police car waiting outside and a variety of forensics and other police officers made their way into the house to do their own jobs. John stood back and watched for a moment, until a hand grabbed his arm and Sherlock pulled him outside. 'Our job's done John. I think a celebratory meal is in order.'

John wasn't paying attention he was looking down the otherwise empty street. He hadn't realised just how peaceful London could be. With the threat of constant death and or mutilation John had lost track of everything. He sighed in delight.

Sherlock made a disgusted noise at his side. 'You're being sentimental aren't you, just because Moriarty is dead and Sebastian Moran is imprisoned doesn't make London any safer than it was before. It just means that we have identified and located two criminals. If you had been unaware of them before this case you would have assumed that London was just as safe as it had been.

John looked over at Sherlock, rolled his eyes and turned to walk down the sidewalk. Sherlock had no trouble catching up with him. 'What?' The detective asked.

'You can be a real kill-joy you know.' John told him.

* * *

_This story was possibly the hardest of all the stories I've posted here. As such being able to check the complete box is incredibly satisfying. Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing._


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